


Ghostly Misadventures

by robin_writes



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Baking, F/M, Fluff, Nostalgia, messing with spencer, you're a ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_writes/pseuds/robin_writes
Summary: You were dead. Deader than dead. And yet you were still here. And you were bored.





	Ghostly Misadventures

You were dead. Deader than dead. And yet you were still here. And you were bored.

There was an accident. Two years ago you slipped in the shower one morning and hit your head against the tiles. And bam, you died. It was fairly painless but incredibly embarrassing. 

///

You opened your eyes to see your own naked body lying on the ground, not moving, blood pouring out from the wound on your head. 

You realised that no one was going to find you. It was Saturday and the office wasn’t expecting you back until Monday. But they’d probably chalk up an absence to being sick. The water would get rid of most of the smell, so it would most likely be a week before you were found. So you decided to leave the apartment, and try to get help. But when you tried to open the bathroom door, your hand went straight through the door knob. You stared at it in shock. And then walked through the door. You shivered. It felt weird, but good. You figured that your next door neighbour, Helen, would be home and you could try to lead her to your body. 

When you got into Helen’s apartment, you saw she was sitting in front of the TV. “Hey! I need help.” You called to her, but she didn’t turn around. “Hey!” You said louder, trying to get her attention. When it didn’t work, you got frustrated and knocked over a dish you had lent her. It smashed on the kitchen floor and Helen spun her head around.  
“Crap.” She said, rushing over to the broken dish. “Maybe (Y/N)’s home.” Helen swept the dish up and bagged it. She left, going to knock on your door. “(Y/N)!” She called out. “(Y/N)?” Helen tried the door knob. The door opened and she took a step in. “(Y/N)?” She called again, but she turned around to leave when she didn’t get an answer. You pushed the door shut to try to persuade her to stay. 

Helen paused and then moved to take a look around the apartment. She rapped on the bathroom door when she heard the shower on. And then she covered her eyes with one hand, pushing the door open with the other. “Are you okay?” She asked, and then removed the hand covering her eyes. “Oh my goodness! Oh no!” She crouched by your head, placing two fingers on your neck, checking your pulse. She scrambled up and left the room, grabbing your landline. She called 911.

Later you were mortified when several men and a few women were traipsing around your apartment, looking around while you were naked in the bathroom. But you got over it when you realised the next day that you couldn’t leave the apartment building.

///

Someone was moving in. The landlord was excited. He always got excited when he managed to rent out your apartment. No one stayed long. You couldn’t stand people living in your apartment, sleeping in your bed and eating from your fridge. So you spent your days trying to force people out. You could move things, break things but you couldn’t be seen or heard. It sucked, but you didn’t have anything else to do. 

A tall skinny guy with light brown shaggy hair, wearing a sweater vest and corduroys walked through the door, carrying two cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other. You walked over to him and pushed the top box off. The box fell, and you heard a smash when it hit the floor. The man placed the other box on the floor and pulled the tape off the one that fell. He sorted through, pulling out a few shards of glass from what looked like a photo frame. 

Another man walked in carrying boxes. He was about the same height, but his was more muscular and had skin like cocoa. You licked your lips at the thin gleam of sweat that covered his collarbones. “Where do you want these kid?” He asked.  
“In the bedroom.” The skinny guy pointed to your bedroom.   
“You drop something Spencer?” The skinny guy was called Spencer huh?  
“Yeah. Clumsy, you know?”  
“Yeah.” The built guy dropped the boxes in the bedroom and then left, presumably to get more boxes. You dropped down in the armchair by the window, turning your body to press your face against the padded surface, watching the two men move in.

It turned out that most of the boxes were full of books. You were intrigued as Spencer began to fill your empty bookshelves with his books. 

It didn’t take long for them to unpack, the kid didn’t have a lot of stuff, but he did have a lot of books. After he filled the shelves, he left a stack of six boxes next to the bookshelves, full of books that wouldn’t fit. He told the muscular guy, whose name was Derek, that he would get some more shelves in the next few days. You thought that was a very good idea. 

You stayed in that armchair while Derek left and Spencer ordered dinner. He took a book from the shelves and moved to sit in the armchair. When he sat, you both felt a shiver run through you. That was your spot, you weren’t going to move. Luckily Spencer got up, thinking the window was letting in a draught. And he sat on the sofa instead, reading his book. You smirked, shifting in the chair, getting comfortable. 

When you died, your landlord figured that he could make more money if he rented the place fully furnished since no one came to pick up your furniture. So it still felt like it was your apartment, not theirs. 

After Spencer went to bed, you listened for sounds of sleeping, and then you flicked the TV on and turned down the volume. The TV was tuned into reruns of ‘Friends’ and you allowed yourself to drift off.

You woke up to a coffee machine whirring loudly. Spencer was standing over you, staring at the TV with an odd expression on his face. He grabbed the remote and turned it off. “Huh. I never turned that on.” He said. You figured you would wait until he left and then read or something. You couldn’t risk him seeing a floating book, or maybe you could. It might make him leave faster. 

Crossing the room, you picked up a copy of A Clockwork Orange and sat down in the armchair. Spencer was too focused on the coffee machine to notice the book floating from the shelf to the chair. You got comfortable, shifting your left ankle under your right thigh, and then began to read.

It took for you to get to the end of the second chapter for Spencer to realise something was up. He sat down on the couch, sipping at his coffee, and then turned his head to look out the window. He jumped back when he saw the floating book. You dropped it suddenly. “What the hell is going on here?” He didn’t look panicked, he looked frustrated. And because of that, you decided to give him a break. You went to the bedroom and laid down on the bed. Hopefully he wasn’t one of those types that stayed in bed and you would be forced to move.

For the next few days you decided to keep a low profile. The kid looked like he needed a break. He brought home a bookshelf and then on the fourth day he went to work. It was early, way too early. But it meant that you had the apartment to yourself for an indeterminate amount of time. 

You wanted to take a look around, see what kind of person Spencer was. 

The fridge was bare, only containing a carton of milk and a packet of ham. You smiled. He looked too skinny, like he needed to taste the blueberry pie you used to make. Back when you were alive. You would always serve it with ice cream and custard, and everyone who tried it wanted more. 

You searched through the cupboards and the bathroom, and then moved on to the bedroom. He kept it tidy, only leaving books on surfaces. In the closet, you found a shoe box. You sat on the floor and pulled it into your lap, opening the lid. Inside were photocopies of letters sent from Spencer to his mother.

You spent the day sitting in front of the closet, reading the letters. They were murder mysteries. It sounded like Spencer was an FBI agent and he worked across the country with a team who helped to solve murders, missing persons cases and child abductions. It was enthralling. You were completely captivated by them. Maybe having Spencer as a roommate wouldn’t be so bad.

You had never tried to live with anyone before. Never told anyone what you were. Maybe you could get along with Spencer. But what would happen if you revealed yourself to him and he told the world about you? Would they turn you into a freak show? Turn the apartment into a tourist attraction? But they wouldn’t have proof if you didn’t give them any. If Spencer told, you wouldn’t give them a reason to believe him, you would make them think he was crazy.

So you picked up a post-it note and a pen and wrote a message. ‘Spencer, your apartment is haunted by me, your friendly neighbourhood ghost. Sorry about the photo, the TV and the book. I was just testing the waters. I’ll try to be a bit nicer. - (Y/N)’ You stuck it to the fridge and then turned on the TV. 

You missed going outside, seeing nature not from behind glass and doing something other than laying around. It was nice, but you felt trapped. You couldn’t leave the building and you wished you had something to do other than read or watching TV.

Spencer didn’t come home that night, or the next night or the night after. You figured he caught a case. It was nice sleeping in your bed again and not having to hold back from doing things that would make objects float. But you felt lonely, after living with Spencer for a few days the quiet seemed too quiet. You never felt like this before, with the other people who had lived in your apartment between your death and now.

You wondered what his reaction was going to be when he saw the note. Whether he would be frustrated that his single-bedroom apartment was already occupied, or intrigued in the prospect of something after life. What you didn’t expect was denial.

He walked through the door looking like he was about to drop at any moment, and went straight for the fridge. He looked at the note, sighed and pulled out his phone. Spencer put it to his ear. You walked over and pressed your ear to the other side of the phone, trying to hear the other side of the conversation. The other person picked up. “Very funny Derek.”  
“Pretty Boy, to what do I owe the honours?”  
“The note you left on my refrigerator.” He was frustrated, clearly too tired to be dealing with this. It was a bad idea.  
“What note?”  
“You know, the one where it says my apartment is haunted. Very funny. How did you even get it here? We were on a case and I came straight home.”  
“I didn’t.”  
“Who did you get to leave the note then?”  
“No one. It wasn’t me. Maybe your place is haunted.”  
“You’re kidding, right?”  
“Yes Pretty Boy, I’m kidding. Look, maybe it was Prentiss or Garcia. But it wasn’t me and it’s not a ghost.”  
“Right, okay.” Spencer stood awkwardly while neither said anything.  
“Goodnight Spencer.”  
“Right. Goodnight.” Spencer hung up. “It was probably Garcia. Too much time on her hands.” He muttered, crumpling the post-it and then dropping it into the trash. He changed and went to bed. 

That wasn’t what you were expecting. Denial. Not exactly the response you wanted. But you would find another way to convince him of your existence, and then you could try to be friends. From his letters to his mother, Spencer seemed like he would be a good friend. 

You slept on the sofa again. It wasn’t too uncomfortable, but it wasn’t a bed either. And you missed food. You didn’t need to sleep or eat or shower, but you slept because there wasn’t much to do. For some reason food was incompatible with your new state. You couldn’t taste or swallow, and it wasn’t like you could go out grocery shopping. 

After a few hours, you woke up. Spencer was taking a shower. You had an idea.

You walked through the door to the bedroom and the bathroom, and stopped when you stood by the shower. The mirror was steamed up. You began to write in the condensation with your finger. ‘I AM a ghost. This place IS haunted. Deal with it.’

Stepping out of the shower, Spencer grabbed a towel, wrapping it around himself, and then noticed that there were words written on the mirror. He read them, and his face went from curious to tentative. “Hello?” He asked, hesitant. He wouldn’t be able to hear you if you spoke, so you wrote on the mirror again. ‘I’m here.’

As your words appeared, Spencer was clearly trying to sort the whole thing out in his mind. “What do you want?” He asked.   
‘Nothing’ You wrote.   
“Then why are you here?” He said.   
‘I live here’   
“Technically you don’t. You’re dead, so you don’t live here. You might have lived here and died here, but you don’t live here.” Spencer said.   
‘Semantics’ You wrote.   
“We’re running out of mirror. Can you write with a pen?” He asked.   
‘Yes’   
“Give me a minute to get dressed and we can talk some more.” Spencer said.

You left the room giving him some privacy. Spencer appeared to be curious, not angry. This was good. He came into the kitchen with a pad of paper and a pen and set it down on the breakfast bar in front of one of the stools. And then he took a seat at the stool next to it. “Are you here?” He asked, turning to face the empty stool. You sat down and lifted the pen. He blew out a breath as he saw the floating pen.   
‘Yes’ You wrote.  
“Okay. How did you die?”  
‘I hit my head’ You didn’t want to tell him the whole embarrassing situation just yet.   
“When did you die?”  
‘Two years ago’ You wrote out.  
“How old are you?”  
’26’  
“I’m 29. I’m not really sure how this works. Can’t you just leave?”  
‘This was my apartment before it was yours’  
“Fair enough. I’m sorry. So what, you can move things but you can’t be seen or heard?”  
‘Yeah’  
“That sucks.” He said and you underlined the ‘Yeah’ twice.   
‘You’re way too skinny. If I make a list of ingredients will you get them so I can make you something?’  
“Oh, uh… Sure. I don’t have any allergies. What do you want to make me?”  
‘Blueberry pie’  
“When you were alive, did you like to bake?”  
‘Yes. I found it calming’  
“Then I would love to buy you the ingredients.”  
‘6 cups of fresh blueberries, 2/3 of a cup of granulated sugar, 1/4 cup of cornstarch, a tablespoon of lemon juice, 105g of unsalted butter, a large egg, 2 and 1/2 cups of flour, 1 and 1/4 teaspoons of salt, and 3/4 of a cup of vegetable shortening. Vanilla ice cream and custard.’  
“Ice cream and custard?”  
‘YES’  
“Okay, I can do that. I’ll run to the store now.” Spencer tore the page off of the pad and folded it over so the ingredients were the only thing visible. He picked up his wallet and keys and left the apartment. 

It took Spencer fifteen minutes to get back, and he was carrying a large plastic bag when he did. “I bought you an apron as well, mostly so I can see where you are, but I thought it would make you feel more normal.” He said as he set the bag down on the breakfast bar. You dug through the bag and pulled out the apron. It was light blue with small cupcakes printed on it. You smiled and put it on, tying it behind you. “That’s better. I can kind of see you now.” He chuckled awkwardly. You imagined how weird it would be seeing a levitating apron moving around your kitchen. “I have some paperwork to do, so I’ll leave you to it.” Spencer grabbed his satchel bag and pulled out what looked to be case reports. Once he sat down at the bar, he started writing. 

You inhaled. It had been so long since you had baked anything, and blueberry pie was your favourite. And when you were mentally prepared, you began to set everything up.

Occasionally Spencer would look over in your direction and chuckle. You had a feeling you looked like Fantasia crossed with The Great British Bake Off. You enjoyed the process of making your own pie crust, once or twice you used pre-made but it never tasted right. “That smells so good.” Spencer said when you had put the pie in the oven. “Where did you learn to bake?” The paper was still on the bar, and so you sat in front of it, grabbing the pen.  
‘My grandmother taught me.’ You wrote.  
“I never really have time to make homemade meals or bake. I work so much, all I want to do when I get home is sleep and maybe read a few books.”  
‘I love to cook, maybe I could cook for you sometimes. Seeing as I don’t pay rent.’  
“That sounds great. It smells like the pie might be almost done.” Spencer watched as the floating pen dropped, and the apron moved to the oven, stooping down to look inside.  
“Not yet.” You said, but he couldn’t hear. “I wish you could hear me. It would be so much easier if you could hear me.” You stood up and took a seat next to Spencer.  
“I don’t believe in ghosts. I never believed in ghosts.”  
‘Now you do?’ You wrote.  
“It’s hard to not believe with you in my kitchen.”  
‘You an empirical evidence guy?’  
“Yes. I don’t believe anything I can’t see or logically believe in.” As he said that, the timer for the oven went off loudly.

Spencer watched you as you opened the oven and pulled the dish out. You bent over it as you placed it carefully on the counter. As the smell wafted up your nose, you were reminded of cooking on Thursday afternoons with your grandmother. You breathed in deeply.

Spencer moved into the kitchen, grabbing plates and forks while you pulled the ice cream and custard from the fridge. You warmed it up in the microwave and then served two huge slices of the blueberry pie. “This is so good.” He said as he took a mouthful. “You know, maybe a haunted apartment isn’t the worst thing to happen.”


End file.
